


Four Weddings and a Zoom Call

by stitchy



Series: Keeping it in the Family [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Family, M/M, Marriage, POV Multiple, Parents and Parenthood, Siblings, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchy/pseuds/stitchy
Summary: Five Tozier family weddings, 1972- 2020.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Maggie Tozier/Wentworth Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Original Female Character(s), Richie Tozier & Sister
Series: Keeping it in the Family [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654831
Comments: 55
Kudos: 262





	Four Weddings and a Zoom Call

**Author's Note:**

> I highly doubt this fic will track unless you’ve read at least one of the previous installments (The Kid’s Table and Honeylamb- which can be read in either order), as there are established OC’s like Richie’s sister Bridget, Bridget’s son and ex, their uncle, Maggie’s second husband, Richie and Eddie’s kid... etc.
> 
> Since this series is historic in nature, I have decided that the last scene set in 2020 has got to go ahead and acknowledge Coronavirus. No one in the story is sick, but obviously everyone’s day to day has been impacted by self-quarantine.

Mr. and Mrs. Joseph R. Leclerc  
request the honor of your presence  
at the marriage of their daughter  
Margaret Jean  
to   
Mr. Wentworth B. Tozier  
on Saturday, the twenty-eight of October  
nineteen hundred and seventy-two  
ten o’clock in the morning  
Saint Mary’s Church  
274 Main Street  
Lewiston, Maine

Reception immediately following

-

It’s a tiny little party in the church basement. Just enough to keep Mrs. Leclerc from feeling like they slipped out the back door of the rectory after taking their vows, to hop in Went’s beat up Chevy and run away. They didn’t want a big stodgy traditional to-do, didn’t even feel the need to get paperwork involved, truth be told- they would’ve just moved in together and gone with the flow if it weren’t for that good old fashioned Catholic Guilt. Mrs. Leclerc, particularly- that woman could lay it down like bricks, build you a personal path to Hell. Now, Maggie didn’t believe that God punished people for loving each other, but she does believe her mother would never speak to her again if they skip out on a wedding. Although that might sweeten the deal for her, Went just couldn’t rob her or their kids of any more family, what with him and Gerry being the only Toziers left. So he called up a hippie friend from college, who would’ve gone Hare Krishna if the Charismatics hadn’t got to him first, and he said sure! He’d do the thing before Maggie started to show- and here they are. Maybe twenty people including Father Dan, milling about with half-priced wine and about four cubic inches of cake a piece. The only flowers are the one’s patterned on the dress of an old auntie. No fuss, no muss. It’s only a little after noon, and really, the lights in the low ceiling are exactly the same as for bingo night and Sunday school, but Went could swear there are stars hung in the air, touchably close.

There she is, his _wife_ , twinkling as she dances with her maid of honor. Somebody had the foresight to bring a few records, and the prayer group’s second volume of Handel’s Messiah has been cast aside for something more secular. One of those ‘Brother’ groups or other- Everly or Righteous, probably- but Went’s not really listening. Her laugh and voice are his music.

As she twirls Andrea, the collection of bangles Maggie always wears glitter from within the bell of her gauzy sleeve. Went loves those jangly little things, too. Can’t stop himself buying her more every time he sees some around. He loves the way they chime together when she picks up the phone, so that he knows she’s the one answering before she even speaks. He loves that while she always thinks to take her earrings and necklace off, her bracelets stay on when they go to bed. He wants to be like that, for her- always at hand. Always a joyful noise to herald her presence.

 _Silly little doodads._ If Maggie took to wearing aviator goggles around the clock, or had a voice like a swarm of crows, he’s sure he’d find a way to romanticize that too.

She catches his eye over Andrea’s shoulder with a smirk. Before he knows it, they’re spinning through what little space there is between metal folding chairs until they arrive in front of Went, veil askew and loose hair trailing through their laughing mouths.

“There you go, Tozier,” says Andrea, sweeping a curl away. “My wedding present to your two left feet- I’ve danced your wife for you.”

“You’ve done a public service,” Went bows to her. He’s such a menace on the dance floor, he’ll step on people’s feet that weren’t even his own or his partner’s. There’s still a sour looking Leclerc glaring at him across the room, from his earlier attempt.

Maggie grins as he gathers her in by the waist. “Lucky you have talented hands, at least.”

“Oh, I’d trade the dental drill for your ability to Mashed Potato any day. Or dance the Chicken.”

“Stop, you’re making me hungry!”

“I know, we really cheaped out on the catering,” Went laments. “You got plans after this? Maybe we could get hot dogs.”

Maggie points a finger to her chin like she’s got to really think about it. “Hmm. I think I’m free. What about you?”

“For the rest of my life," he tells her.

-

  
  


Iris A. Winstead  
and  
Gerald S. Tozier  
invite you to share in the joy  
of the beginning of their new life together  
when they exchange marriage vows  
on Sunday, the thirty-first of December  
nineteen hundred and eighty-nine  
at five o’clock  
The Portland Masonic  
415 Congress Street  
Portland, Maine

Reception immediately following ceremony 

  
  


-

  
  


The upbeat music fades out, and the sound of a microphone scraping a bit too close to a mouth jars Maggie from her reverie. “Uh oh,” she says to Went. The toasts have already been done and the party is well under way, this can only mean one thing.

Cake.

“ _Now, ladiesssss_ ,” the DJ draws out.

Went must not realize, or else he would have launched her out of her seat on his lap already. He gives her a squeeze around the middle. “That’s you, my lady love.”

“ _-Gentlemennnnn_!”

“You too, dear,” she grins back to Went.

“-Could we have your attention for a moment please, for the cutting of the cake!”

As Maggie expected, Went jolts. At least she was prepared for it.

“Oh shoot!”

“They’ll still have to plate it!” Maggie laughs and tempers Went with a firm press of her hand on his shoulder.

They watch and clap and coo, as one does at these sorts of things. They didn’t bring their own camera, but Bridget is up front, snapping away with the Kodak she got for Christmas a week ago. She read the manual front to back, as she always does with mechanical things, and has set to documenting every blessed thing they've done since, so it seemed redundant. She comes back to their table to change out for a new roll of film while they wait for dessert to be served.

“You would think the groom’s brother would get preferential treatment,” Went sighs, watching waiters pass them entirely to serve the back of the room first.

“You would think Richie would already be here, drooling,” Bridget snorts.

Maggie looks at his empty chair and the little placeholder in front of it, graffitied with the scratch n’ sniffs that he tends to keep a sheet of in his pocket to mark his territory like an eccentric but harmless teenage dog. It is kind of strange he hasn’t reappeared for this- he loves dessert to the extent that Went often claims he’s got nothing _but_ sweet teeth. Not that he can lecture.

“I don’t think I’ve heard from him since we danced to ‘Sherry Baby’,” Maggie realizes.

Bridget sticks a finger in her ear and twists. “I haven’t heard _anything_ since he screeched ‘Sherry Baby’.”

Went chuckles. “Now, c’mon, his Valli is pretty good!”

Finally a waiter arrives with a tray laden with cake for the Tozier family. 

“Ahaha, not so fast.” Maggie shoos him away when he offers to fill both Richie and Bridget’s empty champagne flutes, too.

“Aw, Ma, you’re no fun,” Bridget snickers, forking into her cake.

Went surreptitiously reaches across the table and drags Richie’s unattended cake toward his own place setting. “I’ll just... be keeping an eye on this...”

“Oh leave it be,” Maggie tuts. She gets up and kisses the top of Went’s head. “You can have mine.”

She’s going to go see where Richie got off to.

He’s not on the dance floor, certainly. And he’s not patrolling the buffet, anymore, that's closed down. Maggie wouldn’t expect him to try his luck with the bartender- he knows he’s much too babyfaced to get served- but she checks the cocktail lounge anyway, to no avail. Coat room? No sign of his blue and red parka. _Hmm._ That prompts her to try the freezing back entrance where the smokers are taking their break- but no Richie. She even peeks in the car, parked in the lot, in case he decided to take a very cold nap, but that’s empty too.

Maggie runs into Bridget while she’s double checking the restrooms and the smaller coat rack there. “When was the last time you saw Richie?” she asks, properly worried, now. 

“When you did, I think.”

Maggie whirls around, looking back at the crowd again, with no blue coated boy in flashing glasses in sight. It’s not exactly _un_ like him to sneak off now and then, and he’s certainly capable of keeping an eye on traffic and carrying a little cash to keep out of trouble- but usually if he’s up to something he’s more transparently restless. On their drive down, he wasn’t openly dreading the wedding, or lamenting spending New Years Eve with the family rather than with his friends- which might have been expected now that Eddie and Ben were back home from their out of town Christmas trips. He didn’t even complain of carsickness on the drive here. If anything, Richie seemed kind of excited to visit Portland.

“Did he say there was anything here in town he wanted to see?” Maggie asks her daughter. “Somewhere he wanted to go?”

If he took off just after they last saw him, it would have been around 8 o’clock. Maybe there was a rock concert somewhere?

Bridget crosses her arms with an unspoken _Well, well, well_. “Did that little twerp take off again?”

“Bridget,” Maggie warns, her tone brittle. “If you saw anything, tell me. If he’s in trouble...”

The color drains from Bridget’s face. She had been around when Sharon’s boy disappeared, and even if she didn’t really know the classmate who was eventually arrested for his murder, she’s certainly grasped that a child in ‘trouble’ has a deeper, darker potential these days.

“I- I dunno Ma,” she croaks. “He was just looking at the Rand McNally in the backseat, giving Dad directions.”

Maggie nods and digs around her purse for her car keys. “Right. Okay. Do me and favor and if Dad asks, tell him I went to check the hotel for Richie, but I’ll be back by midnight no matter what.”

“Okay?” Bridget’s eyebrows knit together anxiously.

“I’m sure he’s fine, sweetie,” Maggie soothes, making her tone light again. “I’ll bet he stole a half a bottle of champagne and snuck off.”

Bridget’s mouth does a quirky little dance at that. “Uhm. Sure. Check the bathtub,” she chuckles, sort of awkwardly. 

Maggie does plan to make her way to the hotel eventually, but first she’s hoping her hunch will pay off.

As soon as she makes it to the car again, she goes straight to the backseat, not the driver’s. She pulls the road atlas out of the pocket behind the passenger seat and flips through to the pages covering the Portland area. Sure enough, in the G6 square is one of Richie’s smelly little snickers- a Berry Good strawberry, marking the West and Carleton block. He _intended_ to leave, she reasons, which is much less scary than imagining him being lured away or dragged off against his will.

“All right, Richie,” she sighs, and folds back the page to her new destination. “If you’re okay, I’ll stop giving you grief about putting stickers on the wallpaper.”

By the time she drives over, the car has warmed up which she’s very glad of when she finds her son shivering on a residential curb on West Street. The house he’s sitting in front of is a crumbling Mansard, with ratty curtains illuminated in the windows and a rusted stair railing poking up through the snow on an under-shoveled stoop. Maggie puts the car in park and leans across the front seat to push the passenger door open.

“Honey, get in, it’s freezing.”

Richie looks up from his huddle, shocked, and immediately scrambles to his feet. He wavers at the door before climbing in. “Ma, I was gonna come back, I swear.”

“ _Get in_ ,” Maggie repeats.

At her stern word, he does, silent except for a sniffle. His face is stung red from the cold, but it’s obvious he’s been crying, too, with the wet tracks still shining on his cheeks. Now that he’s in the warm car, he peels off his gloves so he can wipe his face dry without brilloing off his nose with his woolly gloves.

“What’s going on, Richie? If you wanted to visit someone here you could have said.” The wedding started so late in the day, they easily could have let Richie meet up with a friend while they got ready at the hotel.

Richie ducks his face into the puffy collar of his coat as much as he can. “I wasn’t sure I could. I couldn’t uhm, I couldn’t get a reply...”

Maggie peers past him to the house again. “Who lives here? One of your friends?”

“Not anymore. She moved,” Richie grumbles. “ _Again_.”

While the membership of Richie’s core friend group has certainly evolved and expanded since the summer, Maggie hadn’t caught wind of anyone important leaving Derry for Portland, but if it was a _girl_ , well. That might account for some of the secrecy. He must have had his heart set on seeing her tonight. Maybe he even would have snuck her back over to the wedding for the party.

“You didn’t know?”

Richie shakes his head. She waits for a bit, but when he doesn’t volunteer any more information or excuses, she starts the car again. They may as well get back before Went can worry.

“You know, Richie, there’s not much I’m gonna tell you you can’t do. You’re growing up. I’m sure lots of your friends are starting to like girls. If you want to have a little girlfriend, it doesn’t have to be-”

Richie blows a raspberry.

“-a _secret_. You’re a little young, but I’d rather that, than worry where you are without a clue.” Maggie clears her throat. “I’m not gonna tell your father you snuck off, but we are gonna talk about that.”

“Do we absolutely have to?” Richie groans.

-

  
  


Kindly Respond By  
The 1st Day of April  
In The Year 2000

Mr **RICHIE FUCKIN TOZIER**   
Accepts With ~~Pleasure~~ / ~~Declines With~~ Regret

Dietary Requirements  
Carnivore / ~~Vegetarian~~

**UNO** Number Attending  
  


-

Richie knew his sister’s big fancy wedding would be a miserable, uncomfortable experience (Enforced tie wearing? Pinchy dress shoes? Ugh), but he could never have anticipated this particular gauntlet of horrors, both traditional and technological.

First of all, there’s the pearl clutching of the Leclerc side of the family. Bridget and Matt are much too modern for their tastes, with their Justice of the Peace and their godless ceremony. He _actually_ heard Great Auntie Babette say the word ‘godless’ while fanning herself. It was kind of breathtakingly hilarious for Richie, actually- but like, objectively shitty. All the little old biddies are scandalized that a couple with the money to have an open bar with signature cocktails (pretentious!) and such a large and lavishly dressed (vulgar!) wedding party couldn’t find a nice church. The idea! The _nerve!_

Said snobby cocktail lounge is _filled_ with LCD screens playing a PowerPoint of Bridget and Matt’s baby pictures, and yes. Being a baby brother of the bride _does_ mean that Richie has a guest appearance in several of these images- so even though the bartender is a drop-dead gorgeous twink ripped directly from a J.Crew catalog, there is no way in hell Richie’s gonna recover from the chocolate frosted birthday cake pictures that cropped of context look like smeared shit in order to shoot his shot. Thank you so much, whoever the fuck’s idea that was.

Then the DJ (who seems committed exclusively to playing boy bands and cannot cut the mic without squealing feedback to save his fucking _life_ ) announces the wedding party at the reception and mistakes the second bridesmaid and groomsman for a couple, which sets off a cat-fight only to be outdone by the bouquet toss.

Wait, wait- that’s skipping over when Dad, forced to do a Father/Daughter dance, stepped on Bridget’s train and ripped off the whooole ass of her dress. With the toasts on delay until Ma and the wedding planner can somehow sort that out, the videographer resorts to filming some B roll of the centerpieces and the gifts and the ice sculpture of a swan, rapidly melting in the unseasonably scorching heat. Which is convenient really, because then when he slips in the water and cracks his head open, the ambulance is already available to tend to the Maid of Honor’s bloody nose. Not much EMTs can can do for Richie, though, who spewed all the hors d'oeuvres he’d just scarfed at the sight of blood, setting off a chain reaction in the flower girl and ring bearer, too.

The sun hasn’t even gone down yet! This wedding is fucking cursed!

So Richie decides to just lean into it when Matt, who he has never personally warmed to, slings a bro-y arm around his shoulder. “Drink with me!” he demands, already slurring.

Richie gets a shot of Bacardi to catch up, and does the vanishing trick he perfected in college before dropping out, rolling the glass over his chin and palming it away.

“Ta da!”

“Wait, I didn’t see how- aw shit,” Matt marvels, but then he throws back his head, not to be outdone at his own wedding. “Check it,” he says, and then he jams the whole neck of his beer in his mouth, deep throating it until his lips meet the label on the body of the bottle.

“Jesus Christ.”

While Matt chugs, Richie glances at the twinky bartender who is now _super_ not gonna fuck with his pukey face like, _Are you seeing this shit?_ These are not the mental images he needs associated with his newly minted brother-in-law. It must be a really rough wedding, even by a professional’s standards, because the bartender bugs his eyes and pours Richie another overflowing shot without being asked.

Anyway, that’s how Richie winds up tipsy enough to think he’ll get away with smoking a joint out in broad daylight. He would probably be better hidden if he had ducked around some of the big leafy bushes behind the country club, but due to some kind of salmon-like homing-instinct, he gravitates toward Dad’s car in the parking lot. He flops from his seat on the hood, just as fishily, when his father's familiar figure rounds the corner, doubtless in search of the Zantac that lives in the glove-box.

“Oh fuck,” Richie huffs, catching himself before he can totally eat shit on the pavement between parking spots. In a completely obvious display of guilt, he straightens up and clasps his incriminating evidence behind his back with both hands. Nothing he can do about the smell. “Heyyy Daddy-o!”

Dad stops short for a moment upon discovering him. His eyebrows are set somewhere between Not Surprised and Relief. “I thought I was having a stress flashback of my own wedding there, for a minute,” he shakes his head as he beeps the lock.

Richie coughs. He’s seen pictures of his parents back in the day- Dad with his long hair and groovy, shapeless clothes. It doesn't take much imagination to fill in the gap of what substance Wentworth Tozier might have used to soothe wedding day jitters.

“ _Uhh_ ,” is the highly imaginative way Richie chooses to fill this current gap.

“Don’t stop on my account.” Dad pulls open the driver’s side door and slides into the seat. He starts up the engine, making the radio blare to life with some Fleetwood Mac. “Just roll down the window so you don’t ash on the seat.”

"What the fuck is happening..."

Richie gets in and feels around for a crank, but after an embarrassing amount of time realizes this car has power windows.

“You said _roll_ ,” he glares at Dad as he holds the button.

“Get with the times, kid.” Dad grins and waits for him to get it down before he turns off the engine again to let the radio play on battery. As expected, he pulls open the glove-box for his pill stash and roots around the backseat for a water. He points the bottle at Richie in offer and Richie angles his joint in return, but both refuse.

“How much more of this shit show are we socially obligated to, again?”

Dad blows an exhausted breath. “The whole night, I think.”

“Personally, I would have called it off when Matt’s mom got a black eye.”

“Mmm,” Dad considers. “Before that. When Aunt Marie stood up at the end of the ceremony and said ‘ _Is that all?’.”_

Richie rolls his head to take a puff in the direction of the window. He holds it for a long time, like a confession, and then lets it out. “I dunno why people put themselves through this.”

“To be married?” Dad guesses, brightly.

“I dunno why they do that either.”

“Eh, you’ll get it. One of these days it’ll be your turn.”

Just cause he’s hit the same age Dad was when he got married was no indicator that he was gonna morph into a person who could want things like that. Or like, become a baseline ‘good person’ who anyone would even entertain the idea of legally (illegally) binding themselves to. Richie rarely wants or gets a second date, let alone a-

He can’t even make his brain _think_ the H word.

“I’m never getting married,” Richie mutters to his fingers. “-Which is fine since like, I literally _can’t.”_

The moment he says it, he can’t believe he let it out of his mouth, but apparently Bridget’s wedding is an occasion for everyone to be their sloppiest, bare-assed self. He tries to recover.

“I mean, ha, Bridget’s the responsible sibling and just _look!_ If I tried to pull a wedding off I’d probably light my, uh, my wife on fire or have it on a cruise that capsizes!”

Dad turns the radio down by half and Richie’s gut preemptively drops.

He’s in no state to face one of Dad’s optimistic speeches and keep his wits about him. He’s too drunk and terrible not to cry or puke or both. Dad’s already fixing him with one of his too kind, too easy-going looks that for years has made Richie feel like absolute donkey shit to lie to- but it’s also so _easy_. Dad fucking loves to believe the best in people. That’s why he’s never caught on to what an unlovable piece of trash his own son is.

“The wedding doesn’t matter,” Dad laughs. “I mean, look at me and your mom! We threw ours together in a month. We didn’t want a wedding at all, but we turned out to be really good at marriage. What we really cared about was just being together, as we are, knowing and accepting each other... even Mom’s crazy family and my _lethal_ inability to dance.”

Oh fuck, Richie can feel that constricting feeling in his throat. He’s hoping it's tears this time, _oh please oh please_.

"You know what I'm saying?" Dad prompts.

Maybe if Richie just. Smiles and nods.

“Yep,” he confirms for Dad. “You guys are great.”

In an unapproachable, _why even bother trying to live up to the example_ kind of way.

“When you get married, Richie, make sure you find someone who you wanna be with- no wedding, good wedding, bad wedding. Better yet-” Dad dangles, twisting in his seat to look Richie in the eye. “Marry someone who you know you could have the worst day of your life with, but just having them there, you wouldn’t mind so much.”

“Will do,” Richie clenches.

Dad eventually leaves him alone to return to the wedding, and Richie sits there in the silent car, sweating and sulking and smelling like puke. If it’s not _today_ , he tries to remember what the worst day of his life to date was, to remember who was there, what happened, _why is he like this?_ Because there’s definitely something bad about him, something very broken inside, or else he wouldn’t be this way.

  
  


-

  
  


**LICENSE TO MARRY**

Before you get married you must apply for and receive a marriage license. Marriage licenses are obtained from the Register of Deeds office of the county where the marriage is to take place. 

In order to obtain a marriage license, you must show proof of age in North Carolina by providing your driver’s license, military or State ID, passport, or certified birth certificate. You will also need to show proof of your Social Security number. This can be done by submitting a W-2 form, payroll stub, or any official document with your Social Security number on it. If you have previously been married, a decree of divorce or death certificate of your prior spouse must be provided.

  
  


-

  
  


“Hello, this is Derry Town Hall, office of the clerk.”

“Hello! Are you the right person to call for vital records?”

Mike chuckles amiably. He’s just filling in, answering phones at lunch during the usual secretary’s maternity leave. Municipal workers gotta stick together. “It’s the right place, at least, Ma’am,” he assures the woman on the other end. “I’ll do my best to help you.”

“Oh good, okay,” she says, collecting herself. “I, uhm- I need to request a copy of my late husband’s death certificate.”

_Ah._

“That’s something I can get going for you.” Mike plucks a pen from the cup full of mismatched, lost, and stolen pens and pencils (and a tire pressure gauge, for some reason) so he can take a note. He doesn’t have access to the records himself, but by the time her check arrives in the mail, the clerk will have been able to pull up the original. “Can I have a name and year, please?”

“Of course. That’d be Wentworth Tozier, in 2000. Tozier’s the last name, not Went, it’s spelled T as in Thomas-”

“I'm- I'm sorry to hear about your husband, uh, Mrs. Tozier.” Mike can’t believe it. He’s kept an eye on the families of the other Losers that remained here in town, of course- but he’d lost track of the Tozier clan a few years back. “I knew him, I’m Mike Hanlon, I know your son. I know Richie.”

The woman hums, thinking. “Mike Hanlon? Mike..." Her pause makes Mike's heart stop. "One of Richie’s... _friends,_ ” she says, as if she’s only just remembered that children have friends. Isn’t it strange that she’d nearly forgot her son ever was a child?

That’s how it is with people outside of Derry. They seem to not so much forget, as _disregard_ that they ever passed through town. Whatever gap they notice in their lives, they don’t find it interesting enough to question. Mike assumes that as long as nothing too unusual or important happened to you in the meanwhile, that benefits everyone. Camouflage for It, and a mercy for those that escape It’s clutches.

Realizing that this is the first time he’s getting the chance to talk to _anyone_ connected to the Losers since they all left, Mike pulls a second pen from the cup, as though it will double his attention. “Last time you woulda seen me was-”

“-You were in Richie’s play!” Mrs. Tozier remembers. “You were the singing detective.”

“That’s me!” Mike tells her. "Senior year during the One Acts."

“Well!” she brightens. “How the heck are ya?”

"Oh, uh..." Mike scratches the back of his neck and bounces his pen on his note paper. There’s really not much he can say for himself. Not when the others are out there, starting to break out with roles and novels and big projects that are so impressive, even a townie like him might catch wind of some of their names. “I’m keepin’ it going, same as always. I work at the library, actually. I’m just temping here to help out.”

“The library!” Mrs. Tozier exclaims. “You know, my mental picture of you, Mike- is picking you and Richie up from the library after Computer Club. On the curb with a bunch of books.”

If the trees outside the window of the clerk’s office weren’t so full of leaves, Mike could see the curb she’s talking about from here. He laughs and squints through the green anyway. “Yeah, I guess I haven’t gone too far.”

“Well that’s a nice fit, though, the library.”

“How are _you_ doing?”

“Oh! Well, I’m a grandma now. Bridget has a little boy, Simon. Do you remember-?”

“Of course I remember Bridget. She was the _cool senior girl_ who founded the Computer Club,” Mike grins. “Richie made me pretend they weren’t related.”

“They’re still kind of like that,” Mrs. Tozier assures him.

“Figures.”

She starts recounting the family exploits, in that unstoppable patter famous with mothers the world over. “Bridget’s still in computers. She’s head of some division or other at Sony, doing very well for herself. And Simon is about to be six. Such a sweet age. He’s got glasses like Richie. And Richie’s out in Hollywood, now, doing comedy and getting TV work. I'm in North Carolina, teaching French and Spanish extension courses.”

“Wow, all right! Go Toziers!”

Mike can hear the pride in Mrs. Tozier’s laugh. “And- I’m remarrying, actually.”

That’ll be why she called for paperwork, then.

“Well congratulations!”

“Thank you very much!” 

Before he forgets, Mike scribbles down a note for the clerk to get the file for Mrs. Tozier. He rips out the next page underneath, for his own keeping.

“Say, I don’t suppose I could get Richie’s number from you. I might like to call him some day.”

  
  


-

  
  


**The Details**  
  
For more details about our wedding   
and to RSVP online, please visit

www.theknot.com/richieandeddie

  
  


-

  
  


Poor Simon. Too young to drink, and there’s no one at this wedding between the ages of three and thirty-five to commiserate with. His wallflowering is terrific entertainment for Bridget, however. She picks at a plate full of chocolate dipped dessert and watches across the room as a parade of would-be boogiers attempt to get him on the dance floor. Ma tries fruitlessly, then Richie, who goes full Kermit and coaxes the DJ into playing ‘Somebody’s Getting Married’ for the occasion, which causes eye rolling so vigorous Bridget can hear Simon’s ophthalmologist cringe in the distance. Then just when Simon thinks he’s safe- little baby Marshall loses track of his mom’s pant leg and latches on to his knee for the duration of a song, bopping in place. An adorable assault. Ben toddles him away and Simon edges closer to escape, fingers still in a death-grip on his own plate of dessert. He raises it as he shakes his head at Beverly. Busy chowing! Maybe later.

Then there’s Mike. He really goes for it, shimmying up to Simon in a Limbo. Simon smiles, not at the invitation- no, his feet stay firmly planted- but at something Mike says. He laughs. He loosens up. He lets his knees unlock as they chat. Mike gets really into a story and his dancing turns into gesticulation and it still kind of blows her mind how naturally the two of them get along, after how long she spent avoiding the mix of family and boyfriends. Probably it helped that Mike sort of started as family, pre-blended by Richie like an extra serving of smoothie when you’re crashing with your brother for the holidays.

_You want breakfast?_

_Sure, dude. Whatcha got there?_

_This sweet, hometown hunk who’s at the same Now What? place in life as you, who’s great at unplugging and making friends in a way you’re not and loves a good research project and even knew Dad, which you can’t pretend doesn’t mean something special to you._

Of course Bridget slammed that back. Next thing she knew they were backpacking in Chile together.

The nostalgic bop that’s been playing starts to fade into some slow Cyndi Lauper, and 80's girl that she is, she can’t pass that up either. Bridget stacks her empty plate with some others on a nearby high top table and dives through the crowd. Like he knows she’s coming, like he’s waited for her too, all this time, Mike extends an arm just at the right moment and she folds right into his side.

“Hey lady.”

“No luck getting this guy to dance, huh?” She nods to Simon. “Have you tried to Simon Says him?”

“Mom!” her son objects. He hasn’t played along with that trick in years.

Mike chuckles. “No. You wanna give it a shot?”

Bridget grants her son a magnanimous smile of pardon. “I learned my lesson about forcing people to dance at my first wedding. We’ll have to settle for each other, c’mon.”

Mike catches her hand as she swings away, allowing himself to be pulled to the middle of the dance floor amongst the grooms and other couples. He draws them into a close hold, so close she can nearly feel his pulse jump as he asks. “So, your _first_ wedding, huh?”

She smiles and nods, slow. _Get it, babe?_ Mike grins back.

“Dad stepped on me and ripped half my skirt off,” she tells him. “And, yes. As this was the year 2000... I was wearing a thong,” Bridget bravely admits. “Richie was nearly blinded.”

Mike snorts. “I happen to know Richie was blind long before that.”

“He puked!”

Too close by not to overhear, Richie squawks, chin currently hooked over Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey! I didn’t see her ass and immediately puke, there were events in between.”

“Between _what?”_ Eddie pulls back. “Who’s ass are you puking at?”

“Bridget's.”

Eddie turns them around to get a visual on her and Mike. He scans them appraisingly. “Oh, well as long as you’re not disrespecting Ma,” he decides.

Bridget pulls a face at him. “I can take back the espresso machine, you know!”

Mike tips his whole body to the side to whisper dramatically. “Keep pushing it, Eds. I want that espresso machine.”

“Marry your own fucking Tozier, and maybe somebody will give you one.”

“Yeah, when’s that happening?” Richie asks. “I want to schedule double Lasik for right before, just in case. Don’t worry, I’ll get Bev to whip me up a _formal_ post-surgical eye mask.”

Bridget flips Richie off with the hand at the back of Mike’s neck. “You’re just lucky me and Mike were kind enough to wait for you two grandmas.”

Eddie squints. “We were together like, a year before you!”

“Exactly,” says Mike, beaming at her. “You gotta hurry up and lock that down.”

-

  
  


Mike Hanlon hhhhanlon@gmail.com is inviting you to a scheduled Zoom meeting.

Topic: Bridget and Mike’s Wedding  
Time: May 9, 2020 04:00 PM Eastern Time (US and Canada)

Join Zoom Meeting  
https://us04web.zoom.us/j/79028964227?pwd=S2xmakZBR294cm1MYTZ3L2FBWnJnUT0  
Meeting ID: 790 2869 4227  
Password: 3HiCYp

Zoom you soon!

Love,   
Mike and Bridget

  
  


-

  
  


Eddie joins the meeting precisely ten minutes beforehand, even though he knows there’s no way in hell they’re gonna get all the Losers, his in-laws, Mike’s family, and various Bridget associates in by the actual starting time. They’ll probably end up starting without someone (his money is on the retirees, Richie’s is on _them_ getting disconnected) but if there’s anything this whole crisis has drilled into him, it's that over preparedness is not the worst personality trait to have.

Simon is already there in the Mike Hanlon Zoom box, since he got sent home from college. He’s got a phone pressed to his ear and an artificial smile plastered on his face. Bill’s box is there too, but it’s empty right now, set on a virtual background of some palm trees, even though Eddie knows he could just head out into his backyard for pretty much the same view.

“Hey!” Simon waves. “Grandma, gimme just a minute- uh- hang on.”

Eddie waits while Simon waits for a pause in his old people wrangling. Over in Eddie's own kitchen, the faucet turns off, which means lunch clean up must be over.

Finally, Simon lowers the phone from his ear and heaves a sigh. “We got them too used to Facetime.”

“Hi Simon,” Eddie chuckles. “Yeah, I was surprised your mom deigned to use Zoom.”

Simon shrugs. “I guess it’s Mike’s laptop?”  
  
“Simon?!” comes a chirp from the kitchen.

Eddie grins. “Uh oh, the president of your fan club just realized you were in the room.”

“It’s wedding time!” Al realizes.

“Yeah, come say hi, Alphabet!” Eddie adjusts his laptop on the coffee table and sits back, preparing for incoming as she hurtles into the living room.

"Hello hello hellooo."

She’s a streak of puffy yellow fabric, decked out in the flower girl dress she’s been given permission to wear whenever she likes, since the in-person aspect of the wedding and just about everything else got cancelled. It comes with a little wreath of flowers and ribbons that makes for quite the pastoral tableau whenever they sit in the backyard for some fresh air. Her flower crown topples off her head as she stops short in front of the camera.

"SIMON!"

Richie follows along behind her. “That’s right baby girl, find your light.”

Al positions herself perfectly in frame, well practiced with this routine, now. “Simon didja see my dress? It’s yellow like a cab!”

“When have you ever seen a yellow cab?” Eddie chuckles. They certainly haven't taken her in any over the nine months they've had her.

“Me and Daddy watch _Fifth Element_.”

Eddie shoots Richie a look.

“I covered her eyes! It’s only like, Eddie Forgot To Curb The Trashcans levels of swearing and violence,” he defends. He plops down on the couch and snuggles into Eddie’s offered arm, his mouth in an apologetic pucker. “You have to understand, there’s only so much _Paw Patrol_ a man can take.”

Eddie sighs and gives him a forgiving kiss.

“You look so fancy, Al!” Simon waves. “Can you see my shirt?”

He moves back from the camera to reveal the fake tux printed on his tee.

“That looks like a Daddy shirt,” Al giggles.

Richie crosses two fingers on each hand in a hashtag gesture. “ _Brand_.”

Honestly, Eddie is surprised Richie went out of his way to wear something with a collar today, since even he has given up on avoiding the day pajamas lifestyle, by now.

Mike walks into view then and waves in the corner behind Simon, and another box pops up for Eileen Pauls. Eddie _thinks_ that’s Bridget’s officiant friend? 

“Hi guys!”

“See you later, Alley Cat, I gotta figure out how to get Grandma on Zoom,” Simon excuses himself.

“Later dude!” Al coos. "Hi Uncle Mike!"

"Hey kid!" Mike leans in, when Simon takes off. “Eileen! That’s my niece-to-be Al, and somewhere behind all that dress, my brothers-in-law. Richie and Eddie.”

“Hello! I’m Eileen, your Auntie Bridget’s friend. What’s Al short for?”

“‘Cause I’m _only five_ ,” Al beams, very proud of the joke Richie has taught her.

“Ahaha, fair enough!”

“Hey Alfalfa Sprout! Down in front!” Richie leans forward to pick her up and sit her in their laps so everyone can be seen. As part of their quarantine kindergarten schedule they’ve taken to practicing siesta directly after lunch, so she somewhat automatically goes into cuddle mode.

“How are you guys doing?” Mike asks.

“We’re great,” says Richie. “Eddie’s bringing home the Instacart bacon right now, so I’m currently living out my dream of being the coolest kid at homeschool.”

“That’s only when Bev and Ben aren’t totally dominating at coloring time,” Eddie points out. “They Zoom in with Marshall-”

_“Is Marshmallow coming, too?”_

“Yeah, Al- to uh, you know, to socialize the kids. How about you, Mike? You nervous?”

Mike puts on an innocent face. “Ahh, to be honest? We already put the paperwork in the mail this morning.”

Eileen gives a thumbs up. “We’re fudging it. It’s fine.”

“Then welcome to being a Tozier, the support group is on Thursdays at 9. It’s me and Al calling Ma to say goodnight because Richie still watches _Grey’s Anatomy_ in the year of our Lord, Twenty Twenty.”

Richie pipes up. “I have to watch it when it airs, Eds, I have to be ready for Shonda at any moment.”

“-She asked him for a pitch.”

“It’s set in _space,_ Mike. _Space_ doctors.”

“-He wants there to be puppets.”

Al perks at that. “ _Yes!”_

Richie pinches the material of his tee shirt. “Merchandising rights, Mike- that’s where it’s at.”

Mike squints at the camera. “Is this the same as Bill’s space turtle thing?”

“There is like, a reptilian space god-” Eddie starts to clarify.

“No turtles!” Richie butts in. “That’s dumb, this show is sophisticated AF.”

"AF!" Al repeats. Thank you Richie. That'll be fun to explain when she gets back to school.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, it’s the same thing.”

Bill appears then, as though summoned by his mentioning, and while they litigate space taxonomy, the Hanscoms, Ma and Robert, and Mike’s cousins show up. Bridget comes on last, preserving at least one little scrap of tradition. Simon very wisely mutes them for the actual vows and exchange of rings, though the only thing the newly weds would have heard from the Tozier-Kaspbrak peanut gallery would be a contented, comfortable sigh.

All weddings should have couches and snuggling and be catered by five year olds with a specific and unswerving love for diagonally cut sandwiches. All receptions should have grandmas and grand kids competing for who can sing ‘YMCA’ louder and the option to sneak off camera for a bit to go make out in the ‘cocktail lounge’/kitchen.

They’ll probably still be stuck at home for their first anniversary next month, and yeah, it _would_ have been great to go on a cruise, and now Richie will _never ever_ be able to sweet talk him into another again. It would have been great to have all their meals catered, and babysitting, and live shows for him and Richie to not-so-discreetly snark at... but all Eddie really wanted was some quality family time.

_Well!_

Maybe instead of their trip, they can get a cat to spice things up.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @stitchyarts on tumblr and twitter if you wanna come check me out over there!


End file.
